by Colin Forbes
`You have been out there?'
`I have studied a map.'
`I know the forest you mean and it would be the best point of vantage. The film unit will be inside a plain van with porthole windows which open – but I cannot send it to take up position until well after dark, late tonight. Otherwise it would be spotted…'
`By Military Intelligence?' Tweed interjected.
`You have been busy…'
Beck paused at a knock on the door, called out to Gisela to come in and played with a pencil while she served coffee. When she had gone Tweed leant forward to emphasize his words.
`Please use one of your sophisticated, infra-red cine cameras. The danger – the evidence to be obtained- probably is during the night. Hannah Stuart died after dark. So did Mrs Holly Laird…'
`I have kept all reference to Mrs Laird out of the papers,' Beck said sharply.
`Certain individuals inside Military Intelligence are as uneasy about this business as we are,' Tweed observed and sat back to drink his coffee.
`Who are you going to see?' Nancy asked as Newman put down the phone inside their bedroom. 'You didn't mention a name.'
`I'm stirring the pot to boiling point before that reception tonight – hoping to break someone's nerve. Then they may make a mistake. I'm on my way now to start the process. You wait here till I get back..
Two minutes later he walked out of the main entrance of the Bellevue. There was the smell of fog in the heavy air. The clammy damp of mist caressed his cheeks. He went straight inside the Bundeshaus Ost and was taken to Captain Lachenal's second-floor office. When the attendant closed the door and Lachenal, dark circles under his eyes, rose from behind his desk, Newman unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off.
`Manfred Seidler is dead,' was his opening shot.
`My God! I didn't know, I swear to you…'
`He was murdered up in the Juras. You were looking for him. I was there when a marksman blew off half his head-and so was Colonel Signer. Do you take orders from Signer?'
`Have you gone crazy? Of course not…'
`Maybe indirectly – through a complex chain of command whose ultimate origin even you don't know…'
`That's impossible. Bob, you don't know what you're saying…'
`That rifle with a sniper scope that was stolen from the Thun district was probably the murder weapon. Who are the marksmen in Thun? There can't be too many of them- and you hold a record of such things. Care to let me look at that record? Or are you going to try and cover up? We are talking about cold-blooded murder, Lachenal.'
`Two such rifles have been stolen – both from the Thun district,' Lachenal said quietly. 'We tried to keep the second theft quiet. It reflects on the Swiss Army…'
`So you will have consulted that record of marksmen very recently – probably still have it in this office,' Newman pounded on. 'May I see it? I might believe in you if you show it to me.'
`You are telling me the truth about Seidler?'
`You really didn't know? There's the phone. Call Beck and ask him…'
`There is a temporary hitch in liaison.'
Which, Newman thought, was a neat way of saying they were no longer speaking to each other. Lachenal looked worried sick, close to the end of his tether. Without another word he went over to a steel filing cabinet, produced a ring of keys, unlocked the cabinet, took out a red file and brought it back to his desk.
`This is classified information…'
`Since when did brutal assassination become classified?'
Lachenal rifled through the typed sheets inside the file. He stopped at a page near the end and Newman guessed it was arranged alphabetically by district. 'T' for `Thun'.
The Intelligence chief gestured for Newman to join him on his side of the desk. He used the flat of both hands to prevent Newman flipping over to another page. There were five marksmen in Thun, a high proportion, Newman guessed. Alongside one was an asterisk. He pointed to this name. Bruno Kobler.
`What's the asterisk for? Or is that top secret?'
`Expert with both rifle and handgun. A crack shot…'
`Get the link?' Newman queried. `Kobler, deputy to Professor Grange. And Grange's closest financial supporter is Victor Signer – present at the execution of Manfred Seidler…'
`Execution?' Lachenal was shocked.
`By a one-man firing squad, a marksman. And Signer may have given the order. Think about it, check it, Lachenal. And I'm leaving now…'
`There are questions I would like to ask…'
Newman shook his head. He buttoned up his coat. He had turned the handle of the door when he fired his closing shot over his shoulder.
`And at long last. I know what Terminal means – yesterday in conversation with someone they told me by chance.'
Thirty-One
`I'll be there if I'm needed,' Lee Foley said, gripping the phone with his left hand while he reached for the lighted cigarette with his other hand. 'All those people at that reception means something's going to break. I'll be there like I said – to watch it happen…'
Inside Room 214 the American replaced the receiver, checked his watch and stretched out on the bed. 11.30 am. Today he was staying in the bedroom which had already been cleaned. On the outside door handle a notice hung. Please Do Not Disturb.
He had used Room Service to order lunch. The fox was in its hole – and would remain there until the moment came to act. Closing his eyes, he fell fast asleep.
Newman walked out of the phone booth and headed along the familiar route to the Junkerngasse. Blanche was waiting for him, clad in a beige sweater and her wet-look black pants, the outfit she wore when she thought she might need to ride her scooter.
`I have a big favour to ask,' Newman told her, 'and very little time to spare. Would you be willing to evacuate your flat for a day or two – I've provisionally booked you a room at the Bellevue. I may need a hideaway – this would be ideal geographically…'
`Of course you can have it…'
`Not for myself. If you agree, lock up any valuables or confidential papers. Your temporary lodger might be nosy. I just don't know…'
`When do I move to the Bellevue? And here is a spare key.'
`By one o'clock. About clothes, pack what you're wearing. And something dressy – for a reception. This has two plusses for me. I have what the pros call a safe house. And I have you where I can keep an eye on you. People are getting killed. A lot of people.'
Inside the Bellevue Tweed knocked gently on the door after first making sure the corridor was deserted. The door to the suite was opened by a small, very broad-shouldered man with a large head, thick black hair and a wide, firm mouth. He was smoking a Havana cigar and he wore an expensive and conservative dark grey business suit.
`Come in, Tweed,' said Dr Max Nagel. 'On time to the minute, as always.'
`We may be getting somewhere,' Tweed replied as Nagel shut the door and ushered him to a deep arm-chair which enveloped the small Englishman.
`Tell me,' Nagel continued in English, drawing up a similar chair to join his guest. 'You saved me a lot of embarrassment over that Kruger affair when you traced the funds he'd embezzled to my bank.'
`That was only achieved by keeping track of that newspaperman, Newman's, activities. I've manoeuvred all the pieces on the Terminal board as best I could. Now we hope and we pray…'
`Maybe not.' Nagel, who spoke in a hoarse growl, reached for his brief-case, unlocked it and handed a file to Tweed. `Those are photocopies of highly intricate banking transactions covering the movement of no less than two hundred million Swiss francs. At one stage they went out of the country to a company in Liechtenstein – then, hey presto! they come back again and end up, guess where?'
`In a bank account accessible to Professor Armand Grange?'
`Where else? You can keep that set of accounts. What is your strategy? When you phoned me before you left London telling me you were coming here you didn't say too much…'
`Not over an o
pen line…'
Tweed then told Nagel all he had discovered – including the gas mask 'an emissary' had brought from Vienna and Manfred Seidler's involvement. Nagel listened in silence, smoking his cigar. His appearance reminded Tweed of a gorilla in repose, an amiable, determined and highly intelligent gorilla. Great force of character emanated from the man and his energy was proverbial.
`So,' he declared when Tweed had finished, 'I repeat, what is your strategy?'
`To squeeze Grange from every possible quarter – to exert such psychological pressure he miscalculates. I don't think we have much time left, Max. And have you another spare set of those accounts?'
`Certainly. Here you are. May I ask who they are for?'
`Newman, the foreign correspondent – passed to him through an intermediary so he doesn't know their source. I can't believe he's here simply to pay a visit with his American fiancee who, incidentally, has a grandfather as a patient at the Berne Clinic. Max, as the Americans say, we may have to go public as a final resort.'
`That I'd like to avoid. This Newman, can you trust him?'
`When these documents are handed over it will be conditional on his not publishing them. Yes, he lives on trust. But if Grange knows he's got them it will unnerve him..
`I hope so.' There was a hint of doubt in Nagel's voice. `Grange is a fanatic-you do know that? He'll go to any length to achieve his objective – which is to change the whole military policy of this country. Tread carefully – Grange is a very dangerous and unpredictable man. Like a cobra he strikes when you least expect it…'
Half an hour later Newman, who had phoned from Blanche's flat, walked into Beck's office. The police chief began to feel he was under bombardment when Newman started speaking.
`I don't see any reason why you shouldn't take a full team including Forensic to the Berne Clinic today with a warrant to examine not only the Clinic but also the laboratory…'
`You are trying to rush me? On what grounds could I furnish myself with a warrant?'
`On the basis of the findings of Dr Kleist concerning the death of their patient, Mrs Holly Laird. Cyanosis poisoning was the diagnosis, for God's sake…'
`Please!' Beck held up a defensive hand. 'And won't you sit down. All right, stay on your feet! Dr Kleist has not yet produced her final report. There are aspects about Mrs Laird's demise which still puzzle her. Until I do receive her report I cannot – will not – obtain a warrant. Haven't I already explained I have to move cautiously – that there are powerful forces trying to have me taken off the case?'
`Then I'll give you my affidavit about the events in the Juras last night and go…'
`I also need a statement from Dr Kennedy…'
`She is waiting downstairs. I insist on being present when you take her statement…'
`That I cannot permit…'
`Then you only get her statement in the presence of the most high-powered lawyer in Berne. Take your choice…'
`You give me one?' Beck spread his hands. 'You are in a ferocious mood, Bob. I will ask them to send Dr Kennedy up now and we will take both statements and get the damned paperwork out of the way. What frightens me is that you are going to do something independent – and highly dangerous…'
Their statements had been taken, signed and witnessed by Gisela. Beck had courteously asked Nancy whether he could have a few words in private with Newman and she had been taken to another room. It was Beck's turn to startle Newman. Opening a drawer he brought out a shoulder holster, a 7.65-mm. police automatic and six magazines which he pushed across the desk.
`Bob, I am not convinced Seidler was the target last night. I also believe you were earlier at Le Pont station when two hired gunmen were killed. No, please don't interrupt. I think you were the target. I recall you are familiar with the use of firearms?'
`What are you proposing?'
`Take this automatic for your protection…'
`So you can have me picked up, searched and found to be in possession of a deadly weapon? No thanks. I happen to know the Swiss penalties for carrying firearms…'
`Then for the protection of Dr Kennedy…'
Beck produced from the same drawer a permit to carry the weapon which he again pushed across the desk. Newman read the document upside down without touching it.
`I will sign the permit personally,' Beck continued, 'and Gisela – or a policeman chosen at random – will witness my signature. I am pleading with you. For old times' sake…'
Newman agreed to take the weapon.
The day was moving fast. It was 1 pm when Tweed, seated in a chair in the reception hall, saw Blanche Signer arrive with a case. He waited until she had registered, then stood up and strolled over to join her by the lift. He spoke only when the lift doors had closed, holding his brief-case in his left hand.
`Come to my room, Blanche. We have to talk…'
She slipped inside his room unseen by anyone and dropped her case on the floor. In her concise manner she explained why she had booked in at the hotel – that Newman needed her flat for a purpose unknown to her.
Tweed listened and nodded his head in approval. He should have thought of this precaution himself – Blanche would be safer inside the Bellevue until they had brought this matter to a successful conclusion – if that were possible. Taking a set of the accounts he had received from Dr Nagel and which he had put inside a sealed envelope, he handed the envelope to her.
`Can you get this into Newman's hands very urgently? And he must have no inkling as to where you obtained it…'
`I'm sure I can manage that. I'm just not sure when. He may be staying here but I don't want his fiancee to see me.'
Tweed smiled sympathetically. 'I understand. But as soon as possible. Any moment now everything may blow up in our faces…'
Newman had strapped on the shoulder holster, slipped the automatic inside it and dropped the magazines inside his coat pocket before he joined Nancy and they left the building. He made no mention of the weapon to her.
He insisted that they had a leisurely lunch in the Grill Room and, because he sensed she was jumpy, steered the conversation away from recent events. Occasionally he checked his watch.
`You're going to meet that last witness this afternoon,' she observed quietly, watching him over the rim of her glass. `Isn't that why you keep checking your watch?'
`I looked at it twice…'
`Three times…'
Oh, Jesus! he thought. He smiled. 'Yes, I am. It may take me a couple of hours – I can't tell. I'd appreciate it if you would stay inside the hotel…'
`After last night wild horses wouldn't drag me out…'
`You wanted to see me, Bruno?'
Kobler stood up behind his desk and closed the file he had been checking, the file on Jesse Kennedy. He walked round the desk and hesitated, unsure of his employer's reaction.
`If something is worrying you, Bruno, tell me. So far I have found your instinct for problems infallible. Do we have a problem?'
`It's Willy Schaub, the head porter. I saw him carrying on a long conversation with Dr Novak before he went off duty. And Schaub is greedy for money,' added Kobler who was paid an enormous salary.
`So?'
`It's Schaub's day off. He lives in the Matte district in Berne. I really think it might be worth checking him out.' `Do it,' said the Professor.
Lee Foley's plans for a quiet afternoon inside the hotel were changed by the phone call. Wasting no time, he put on his jeans and windcheater and left the hotel, carrying the holdall in his right hand.
Like Newman, he had also realized that the way to leave unseen was by descending in the lift to the lowest level, walking past the garderobe and emerging by the exit from the coffee shop. He crossed the road, went inside the cafe facing the Bellevue and ordered coffee. He was careful to pay as soon as the beverage was served. The Porsche was parked round the corner so there was nothing more he could do. Except to sip at his coffee and wait – and watch.
Newman drove a long way round
to reach Gerberngasse 498, the home of Willy Schaub. Novak had made the appointment for three in the afternoon so he left the Bellevue in the Citroen half an hour earlier.
One of the great advantages of Berne, he reflected, was that it was not to difficult to throw off a tail. The place was such an intricate network of streets – and with a little audacious driving the trams could be exploited.
At 2.50 pm he was driving along the Aarstrasse with the river on his right. He drove on past the sluices, into the Schifflaube which brought him deep into Matte where everything was centuries-old. Continuing on into the Gerberngasse, he slowed down as he approached the Nydegg bridge and slid into an empty parking slot.
On both sides of the street ancient houses formed a continuous wall, a huddle of misshapen edifices – several storeys high – which protruded at intervals. The street was deserted in mid-afternoon and the mist, which had withdrawn earlier, was coming back. It was very silent in the canyon and Willy Schaub's place was on the left, overshadowed by the bridge high up. 2.55 pm. Newman peered up a covered wooden flight of steps which ran up to the bridge alongside it and went back to Schaub's house. He pressed the bell alongside Schaub's name and wriggled his shoulders. He was still very much aware of the automatic nestling inside the holster under his left armpit.
A short barrel-shaped man, late middle-aged and holding a bottle of beer in his left hand which, Newman reflected, explained his large belly, opened the creaking door and stared suspiciously at his visitor. Wisps of white hair stuck out from his turnip-like head and his only small feature was the wary eyes peering at Newman.
`Willy Schaub?'
`Who wants to know?' the man asked truculently in German.
`Robert Newman. You're expecting me. Three o'clock…' 'Got some identification?'
Newman sighed audibly. `It might not be too bright keeping me out here on view, you know.' He produced his passport, opening it at the page which showed his photograph, closing it again and holding up the cover which bore his name.
'You'd better come inside, I suppose.'